


High Speed

by engagemachine



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Kidnapping, Obsessive Behavior, Stalking, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:48:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27009859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/engagemachine/pseuds/engagemachine
Summary: Wrong place. Wrong time.Alt: A train ride home after a long day at work doesn't go exactly as planned.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Original Female Character(s), Joker (DCU)/Reader, Joker (DCU)/You
Comments: 18
Kudos: 61





	High Speed

You're tired.

It was another long, boring day at the office again, and the fat guy with the penchant for horizontally-striped sweaters—the one who sat in the cubicle directly across from yours—kept not-so-furtively glancing at your ass every time you happened to walk by. He's hit on you several times over the course of the three years that you've worked here, and now the game's getting old. He just doesn't seem to take a hint.

He's pestered you nonstop today especially, popping into your cubicle at every hour and every coffee break, beleaguering you with questions about your personal life and _do you have a boyfriend?_ and all that jazz.

You try to be nice, you really do. You feel bad for him, in a way. He’s clearly desperate. He says he wants to get to know you better, wants to see if the two of you have anything in common, but you know that you don't, and you just happen to be the closest available target for him to pin his fantasies on. What he _really_ wants is a way into your pants, but you’re a single mom to a screaming toddler and locked in the middle of a nasty custody battle with your ex. You have nothing to offer, and you’re almost certain _he_ has nothing to offer _you_.

It's almost nine o'clock when you finally step into the subway car, secluding yourself somewhere in the back where you can rest your head against the window and not have to worry about being bothered. Normally you'd take a cab, but tonight you are exceptionally tired and you don't feel like standing on the sidewalk in the dark as you wait for one to arrive.

Your job is located in one of the dodgier parts of the Narrows, a place where cab drivers—and people in general—rarely seem to venture, especially at night. The building you work in is old and weathered, the red brick chipped and faded, almost bedded down by the thick vines that snake up through its crevices and cracks, winds itself around the rusted gutters. Drooping telephone wires surround it on all sides, mangled and sad looking, and all it would take is one bad storm to send them toppling over onto the building. Sometimes when it rains really hard and you’re at your desk, getting reamed over the phone by another angry customer, you imagine those telephone poles snapping right in half, collapsing onto the building—the hot, sizzling crackle of electrocution—and then the whole place bursting into flame, spurred by the manic frenzy of a shower of electrical sparks.

You work for a sleezy pharmaceutical company that pedal-pushes weight loss pills over the phone, and constantly seems to skirt the boundaries of the FDA. Not exactly what you _thought_ you’d be doing when you graduated with honors with a Bachelor’s in Business Administration nearly five years ago, but Gotham had a way of pulling the rug out from underneath you when you least expected it, and you’d found yourself lying flat on your back—dazed by the turn of events—more times than you could count.

You close your eyes and slump a little into the cold, hard seat, resting the side of your head against the window, lulled by its vibrations. Overhead, the florescent lights of the subway car are dimmed and occasionally flicker, but it's nothing out of the ordinary. There's gum stuck under the seats and fingerprints on the window and a crude stick-figure drawing of a man holding his penis on the back of the seat in front of you, but you’ve seen worse.

Briefly glancing down at your watch, you expect you'll make it home in about thirty minutes, which leaves you just enough time for a small nap, seeing as how you're all alone.

That, however, immediately changes when the car begins to slow to a stop and the doors slide open. One lone passenger, a man, steps inside. He licks his lips and glances around, noticing you in the back and then uninterestedly turning away. He seats himself in the opposite section of seats near the back, facing you. You watch him furtively, your head still against the window, as he adjusts his jacket and then smooths his wavy hair, which is a dark shade of blond and reaches just below his ears. He's dressed in a black suit, you notice, but that doesn't really strike you as odd because you figure he probably just got off from working late, same as you.

Equally uninterested, you close your eyes again, too tired to keep them open. You begin to think about what you'll do when you get home. Pay the babysitter, first, maybe a little extra this time because you're usually not home this late and it's a school night for her. You’ll check on Riley after she leaves, your three year-old baby girl who is hopefully tucked away in her crib, sleeping soundly. After that, you'll take a quick shower, just long enough to relieve you of the day's stresses, before finally crawling into bed and turning off the lights. That new book on your nightstand you’ve been meaning to crack open for _weeks_ will just have to wait.

Since tomorrow is Friday, you have to make sure you pay the utility bill and slip it in the mailbox before you drop Riley off at daycare and then head to work. And speaking of work, you have an important staff meeting tomorrow with the boss man, so you'll have to dress extra nice.

As the subway car quietly hums along its tracks and the lights flicker overhead, you mentally begin to arrange an acceptable outfit you can wear tomorrow, trying to picture all the clothes in your closet and also remember which ones are still at the dry-cleaners.

You’re startled out of your thoughts when you hear someone clearing their throat. When your eyes open, you see Mr. Wavy Blond Hair standing in the isle directly next to your seat, looking down at you.

Your first thought is initially, _wow, he's tall,_ but then you remember that this is Gotham, crime city capital of the world, and instinctively you pull your purse a little closer to your side. You try to do it furtively, but he seems to notice and smiles a little, just barely, and with that small action you suddenly take notice of the fact that a Chelsea grin splits either of his cheeks. You didn't notice it when he was so far away, but up close you can see it more clearly, how one scar appears to be slightly larger than the other and how _oh my God he's caught me staring._

You smile politely, if not a bit uneasily, and force your eyes to meet his.

"I'm sorry, can I help you?" Your voice is tired, and if Mr. Wavy Blond Hair is listening as closely as you hope he is, he may have heard the unmistakable _I'm not in the mood for small talk_ that is laced within your question.

"I, uh, didn't mean to interrupt your _nap_ ," he says, and something about his voice makes your spine positively _curl_ , the hairs on the nape of your neck standing at attention. His voice is deep, but there’s a nasal quality to it, too, and it’s _weird_. “I, uh, I've got a bit of a _problem_ that I was hoping you could help me with."

Up close, you notice his suit isn’t really black, but a dark, washed-out shade of gray. It looks old. Unwashed. He doesn’t look like a business man at all.

“Um… sure,” you say, a little hesitantly. You’ll do whatever you have to to make this man go away. You sit up a little straighter in your seat and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, giving him your full attention.

"See,” he begins, and you can’t help but stare at the way his tongue prods along his lower lip for a second, like he’s tasting the flesh there, “You're just the most _bee-you-tiful_ girl I've ever seen—" he says, enunciating the word so strangely, making your stomach clench. He drops his voice to a growl as he leans in closer and grips the seat in front of you, "—and I've just got. To. _Have you_."

Mr. Wavy Blond Hair isn't just tall anymore, he's _towering_ , and the way he’s standing over you makes you feel _tiny_. You swallow and then laugh a bit nervously, completely at a loss for words. This is what women do, right? This is what we _always_ do. We laugh in the face of discomfort. We brush it off. It’s safer, this way, to play aloof, to make it seem as if we’re in on the joke.

"Um, I’m sorry—" you start, but then don’t really know how to finish. You know you look panicked, like an animal about to be brought to the chopping block for slaughter, but the rest of your words get tangled somewhere in your throat, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t force them out.

He chuckles at you in response, his pleased little rumble igniting goose bumps over your arms and legs as he slithers closer, easing himself down next to you. You twist your body so that your back is towards the window, and you press yourself into it as much as it will allow. You wish that you could somehow bust out of the confines of this subway car—or perhaps vanish into its walls and disappear.

"Listen," he begins. He spreads his legs wide in that way men tend to do, his thigh casually grazing yours as he clasps his hands in between his knees. He addresses you as if the two of you have known each other for years and are close friends playing catch up. Shooting the breeze. He doesn’t look at you when he talks, and you’re grateful for that. You don't want him to see how freaked you’re getting.

Everything about him is unnerving; the tattered suit, his unwashed hair, the scars, the _smell_ of him—like he’d fallen into an oil drum, reeking of gasoline, of sweat—and the stench of something else you couldn’t put a name to that made your nostrils sting.

Something about the way he can’t sit still, too, like he’s hopped up on PCP or something. The longer you stare at him though, the more you come to realize he’s not under the influence. There’s an underlying element of control to his movements, and he’s not exhibiting some nervous tick. They’re habitual. Practiced.

You steel yourself for the gentle letdown. You'll tell him to go away, tell him that you're tired and that you're not in the mood to talk. Maybe you'll tell him you’re married. And then you'll get off at the very next available stop, just to be safe.

His voice, though, jolts you out of your thoughts.

" _I_ —" He draws out the vowel, as if he’s tasting it in his mouth, stretching his vocal cords around it, "—I think you're... beautiful. Really beautiful." He swallows again and glances at you from out of the corner of his eye—like he’s nervous, almost—and then he’s bouncing his right knee, the one that’s pressed against your thigh, and the friction makes you want to jerk your leg away, but there’s no room to move anywhere else.

He opens his mouth to finish what he was trying to say, but you abruptly cut him off before he can continue. This is not okay. This is not good.

"I'm sorry," you say again, hoping he doesn’t catch the quiver in your voice. He looks up at you with a sharp jerk of his head, and you're startled by the intensity of his gaze, his hard, glittering black eyes.

Something about that stare—sobering, _heavy_ —pins you to your seat. Immobilizes you. It’s takes several seconds for you to realize the train is slowing.

You tear your eyes away from him, relieved, and grab your purse a little tighter. This isn’t your stop, but you’re getting off now regardless.

"I—I really have to go. This is my stop." Your voice is all breathy and rushed, but you don't care. You just want to _get off_ of this train, damn it.

You grab your purse and stand up to slide past him, but Mr. Wavy Blond Hair seems to have other ideas, his arm coming up so fast you hardly even have time to register it. He leans forward and grabs the seat in front of the two of you, effectively blocking your way out. You see the veins pulsing in his hand from how tightly he is gripping the seat, and your heart convulses.

He's strong.

 _Don't panic, don’t panic,_ you think, letting out a shuddery exhale.

The train squeals to a full stop, and you know it's only going to remain that way for a few seconds longer.

"Please, sir—" You hate how desperate your voice sounds, how pitiful. "I—I have to get off now."

"This isn't. Your. Sto _p_ ," he says, and the way he stares at you, like he _knows_.

A terrifying jolt of realization spears straight through your chest when it occurs to you that he does. He _does_ know.

You glance to the side just in time to see the doors sliding closed, and you let out a whine of desperation as you sink back down into your seat. The train slowly starts forward again, and you're too terrified to do anything but try and contain the rapid beating of your heart.

"You, ah—" his voice is low, his eyes slowly rising to meet yours as he stares at you from beneath his brows, “—you don't quite seem to understand the _gravity_ of the situation, do you?" As he removes his arm from the seat and turns to look at you, you can't help but feel smoldered by his gaze again, and you try to put some distance between the two of you, pressing your back all the way against the window, fully facing him now.

"You see, when I _want_ something," he eyes you significantly, "I _get_ it." He pulls back to assess your reaction, cocking his head, and you can only stare at him as he reaches forward, grabs your chin between his forefinger and thumb. "You feel me?"

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place pre-Dark Knight. I'm running this particular story on the theory that Jack/pre-Joker really is insane.
> 
> As always, comments are welcome.
> 
> This work has been crossposted.


End file.
